


the line of duty

by bannerless (seraf)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Choking, Coercion, Dubious Consent, Force Use, Inappropriate Use of the Force, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Prosthesis, this is. a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 16:06:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16329206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraf/pseuds/bannerless
Summary: set in the universe of 'only by surviving it will you prevail', but noncanonical to that work. you don't have to read that if you're just here to read darth vader porn.





	the line of duty

he’s discussing the pros and cons of setting up a new outpost on mimban when the summons comes, and his jaw tightens slightly for a moment.

 

a phantom hand, resting low and heavy on the small of his back. possessive.

 

curtly, he finishes the discussions, excusing himself from the holocall by saying that there were other matters he needed to attend to. ( which was . . . true, in a way. but he doubts that for a bet of a million credits and all the time in the world, they wouldn’t be able to guess what his duties were. )

 

the hand disappears as he heads for lord vader’s room. ( it’s not his bedroom, thire wouldn’t call it. office, perhaps? was it just the room he came to to sit broodingly and look out over mustafar, and do - this? ) it’s a pretty . . . barren room. a chair in front of darkened glass that lined the entirety of one wall, allowing the viewer to look out without being seen. a desk, and a second chair next to it. a scattering of mechanic’s tools in one corner. and that was it.

 

( no imperial banners, even. they were common enough through any imperial buildings, and there were a good few in the rest of the castle, but vader’s walls were just sheer black volcanic rock, smooth enough that thire sometimes didn’t want to touch it, fearing his fingerprints would mark it up. )

 

( though they had certainly seen worse. )

 

vader isn’t there, yet, and thire’s never sure if that makes him more or less tense. still. it’s routine at this point. he walks to his typical spot facing one of the walls, setting his helmet by his feet, and interlocks his fingers behind his head, walking forwards even further until his nose is almost touching the basalt. this position always reminds him of surrender.

 

he supposes that’s apt.

 

he’s not sure how long he stands there, but his patience does kamino credit - he doesn’t twitch, doesn’t move out of place, just stands and waits. he was called, so he will come.

 

he’s never sure which comes first - the sound of vader’s footsteps, the steady rythym of his respirator, or the way the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention, screaming out a warning. but still, he keeps his hands folded behind his head, keeps his eyes trained towards the wall. ( vader doesn’t let him look, ever, and at this point thire’s concluded that vader doesn’t want him to. instead, he picks out the small swirling patterns in the basalt, or counts his own heartbeat, felt in his throat, now. )

 

there’s a hand at his back now, solid and _real,_ causing his armor to gently clink once against the dark wall until he adjusts himself to it, right above his skidplate. his storage belt was left in the small barracks he shares with jek and the others, here, so he can feel the weight of vader’s hand that much more acutely over the small unarmored gap between his plating.

 

he’s never sure if he’s meant to speak now, or just wait for things to progress, but he does his best to relax. vader’s hand isn’t moving, so after a few more seconds pass by, he drops his hands, going for the clasps of his codpiece and skidplate. it’s possible vader wants to see him remove them himself. wouldn’t be the first time.

 

‘ no. ‘

 

he freezes, hands on the clips, still careful not to turn around. ‘ no? ‘ perplexed, now, he just lets his arms hang by his sides.

 

vader seems to be . . . studying him? he can’t see him, and he can’t _ever_ really make out his expression, of course, but he can almost feel the blank power of vader’s gaze, boring holes into his neck. finally, the sith speaks again. ‘ close your eyes, commander. ‘

 

thire obliges willingly enough, and vader’s hand rests heavy on his shoulder.

 

‘ now turn. do not open your eyes. ‘

 

the room is large enough, and empty enough, that even the slight sounds of thire’s boots against the ground as he presses his back to the wall echo through the chamber, along with the rasp of vader’s breath. perhaps, though, it’s just his other senses, compensating for his lack of vision. ‘ yes, my lord. ‘

 

‘ good, ‘ vader says simply, and his hand lifts. he surveys thire for another few moments, the commander’s skin rippling up in goosebumps for it. he’s wearing his blacks and his armor, still, but it’s a bit of a cold comfort. vader can likely feel him about to shiver, and when he wants thire out of his armor, it will be so. after a moment of . . . examination, perhaps? contemplation? thire hears a low, repeated clicking, and his armor, piece by piece, slips off of him as the clasps are undone, his plates unceremoniously clattering to the floor, leaving him in his blacks and boots.

 

vader’s hand reaches forwards, and thire shivers as it rests heavily between his ribs. he knows what’s caught vader’s attention - the clone armor hasn’t yet been cycled out. including the undersuits they wear. on thire’s chest, like a brand, the republic cog still sits there. thire swallows once, but forces himself to remain steady. the pressure increases some, pushing thire’s back into the wall, cold stone pressing into his shoulders.

 

and then the hand is gone, and thire huffs out a breath once, something like relief there.

 

‘ strip. ‘

 

thire finds himself obeying almost before his brain has time to process the word, tugging off his shirt in a fluid motion and letting it drop by his armor, stepping out of his boots and a second later, his blacks and greys, when he’s pushed them down to his feet. his eyes stay closed, even as the cold air hits his skin. ( he thinks it’s to compensate for the volcanism of the planet, but nine hells, it’s cold enough in this building sometimes to make his fingers numb. )

 

vader’s hand . . . it’s not quite cupping his face, now, but his thumb is resting firm under thire’s eye, hand forcing his chin to tilt up slightly, his jaw held in an iron grip. a test. he can feel the tip of vader’s thumb now, almost brushing his eyelashes, pressing firm almost _into_ his eye.

 

it’s a test.

 

thire keeps his eyes closed, even with the discomfort. breathes in, out, counts his own heartbeat. eventually, vader’s hand shifts downwards, still cupping his face, but not pressing into his eye anymore. a more comfortable place.

 

‘ good, ‘ he says, simply, and thire relaxes some, for that. still, this is . . . new. typically, he’ll be fully armored, or armored but for his skidplate and codpiece. only that which was necessary. his face is typically pressed into the basalt, rather than vader . . . trusting? him? is this trust? to keep his eyes closed.

 

his hand shifts downwards again, cupping thire’s throat, smooth leather pressed to his jugular, the heel of vader’s palm just at the point of beginning to constrict his breathing. his hand flexes, almost imperceptibly, and his thumb moves, resting underneath thire’s chin, forcing it up so his head faces the ceiling, hair brushing the wall.

 

and he pushes up, thire’s feet leaving the ground. somehow, it doesn’t choke him, like this - he’s sure that something is supporting the rest of his weight, making it so the brunt isn’t given to his throat as he’s pinned against the wall, arms still just resting by his sides.

 

vader’s forearm pushes his shoulder back at an uncomfortable angle for a moment, and then he’s pressing against thire, the layout of buttons on his chest digging into thire’s skin, over his sternum. smooth leather presses against his skin, cool and unyielding, durasteel beneath. vader’s free hand, the one not digging into his throat, shifts to grip at thire’s hip, and he understands the prompting, hesitating a moment before lifting his thighs to wrap his legs around vader’s hips, ankles locking together to hold himself in place.

 

‘ _olar_? ‘ he asks, for confirmation. he’s not sure whether vader knew mando’a, or if he was just in thire’s head. but either way, it’s sometimes easiest to keep to his own language, like this.

 

‘ yes, ‘ vader says, and the hand around thire’s throat loosens some, granting him some lenience. the other reaches for his thigh, grip settling there, almost bruising as he pushes thire’s leg back. thire wonders whether he means for it to, or if he doesn’t realize the strength he’s using. he shifts against the wall, adjusts to the uncomfortable angle as best he can, and just . . . waits.

 

he’s not actually sure what it is that vader . . . uses. he’s never been able to look. and true enough to that pattern, his eyes are shut now, crown of his head pressed into the wall. out of curiousity, now, as he hears a second soft clicking, he opens his eyes, tries to angle them downwards to look, and he’s rewarded for his curiousity by the heel of vader’s palm crushing into his windpipe, sending his head knocking back against the wall with a sharp jolt of pain and cutting off his air. he hisses through his teeth, evaluates the bump to his head, concludes that he’s not concussed. so vader does have control enough for that, at least.

 

‘ eyes _closed,_ commander. ‘

 

there’s a tone of warning explicit in his voice, and thire’s eyes suddenly feel . . . heavy. he thinks he couldn’t keep them open even if he wanted. ‘ yes, sir. ‘ he blinks them shut, resignedly. he supposes it will remain a mystery.

 

speaking of.

 

he shudders at the cold - cold metal, cold lubricant, the wall freezing against his back. it’s a lava planet, you’d think things could be a little warmer. his thighs clench together some at the cold metal pressing against his entrance, and vader pauses where he stands. ‘ calm, commander. ‘

 

‘ it’s _cold,_ ‘ thire says, through clenched teeth, perhaps a little inanely. he’s suddenly aware of a sudden pressure in his mind, causing his head to waver, tension leaving first his jaw, then his neck, head slumping forwards into the press of vader’s hand, and finally his thighs, dropping from around the dark lord’s waist, now just pinned in place by the pressure of vader’s body against his and the force.

 

‘ calm, ‘ vader repeats, and thire thinks that if vader’s voice was capable of conveying _smugness_ through the respirator, it would be present, now. all he can do in response, really, is huff once, short and exasperated, through his nose.

 

the heaviness lifts from his body as vader pushes into him, slowly but relentlessly, leaving him capable of wrapping his legs back around his waist and grunting out a swear through his teeth, eyes squeezing shut so hard he sees white behind his lids for a moment, adjusting himself to it once vader stills. he forces himself to breathe in through his nose, trying to steady himself.

 

( he’s not sure if vader’s looking for him to scream or to moan or otherwise react. he can’t really see vader’s _own_ reactions, after all, so he’s never sure if he’s doing something right. )

 

it’s . . . a stretch, but once he begins to settle, not a particularly painful one. though that might change once vader actually begins to move. for now, though, he actually waits, gives thire a moment to adjust to the feeling of being filled, just keeping one hand on thire’s throat, heavy without choking him, and another on his thigh, pinning thire to the wall like an interesting butterfly.

 

vader _moves,_ suddenly, and thire almost yelps, caught off-guard by it, legs twitching where they wrap around vader’s back. ‘ bastard, ‘ he mutters, and feels vader’s hand press down on his throat for a moment before going back to just holding it. he’s unsure if it’s meant to be a warning, or a sign of amusement. he brings one hand up, grabbing onto vader’s forearm, fingers digging into the leather, feeling the metal through the slight give the fabric yields.

 

he doesn’t move thire’s arm _off_ of him, so thire takes it as a sign that that’s allowed, clinging on hard. ‘ _fierfek, ‘_ he hisses, as vader rolls into him, smooth leather now pressing to the backs of his thighs for a moment, before he thrusts again.

 

thire wonders what the point of this is - can vader _feel,_ through the . . . prosthetic? that he currently has pressed into thire? does he just like the power of it? why change the typical routine of thire facing the wall for today? he can feel that it’s metal, so it’s definitely a prosthetic of some s-

 

and he’s snapped out of his errant train of thought by vader’s hand digging into his windpipe to the point where he _can’t_ breathe, stars swimming in his vision and a sharp note of panic rising in his chest, one leg kicking out, hands both coming to try and tug vader’s arm off from around his throat, yanking on his wrist hard - though it seemingly has no effect, vader implacable where he stands, fingers cool around thire’s neck. cutting off thire’s air. crushing him.

 

the world behind thire’s eyelids has started to take on a red tinge, the sound of the world outside fading away, leaving him with just the crash of his own uneven heartbeat in his ears, when vader finally - he doesn’t let go, his hand still rests there, but he releases the pressure, thire’s eyes opening, tearing up as he gasps for air, chest heaving. his fingers still dig into vader’s arm, holding on for dear life as he coughs for a moment, before letting his head thump back against the wall.

 

the world has an almost sharp feeling to it now, the cold rush of adrenaline flooding thire and making his body scream about every stimuli he feels now. the burn of his legs where they catch on the leather of vader’s suit, friction rubbing them red. the minute shifts of vader’s hand on his throat, seemingly adjusting himself. the low hum of power from the suit itself, and the steady rhythm of breath through the respirator.

 

vader, buried in him to the point where his hips pressed to thire’s skin.

 

thire remembers, now, and with another shuddering breath, closes his eyes almost painfully, groaning once at the feeling as vader adjusts his thigh again, pushing it at a slightly wider angle to thrust into him again. for a moment, thire could swear that the silent eavesdropper in his head is _pleased,_ almost. maybe he just doesn’t like it when thire tunes out entirely. wants _some_ kind of response from him.

 

at that thought, there’s a feeling similar to the summons - a phantom hand, but this time trailing down thire’s spine, and then down over the sharp curve of his hipbones, fading away as it grew close to the base of thire’s cock, and thire’s teeth grit together so hard that he thinks vader hears it, groaning once for the absence, and then again when vader’s angle shifts, driving up into him again and - there.

 

if he were any less disciplined, he thinks he might have whined, but he digs his teeth into the inside of his cheek instead, biting to almost the point where he tastes blood, as he’s thrust deep into almost _violently,_ hammering a point inside of him that tugs that reaction out of him, makes his hands fumble around vader’s arm where it still holds his throat.

 

vader apparently doesn’t like thire holding himself back. he shakes off the commander’s hands like they’re mere annoyances, though the feeling of being held by the throat remains, and shifts his hand to thire’s jaw, forcing his mouth open once before returning his hand to thire’s neck, and continuing to thrust with the same intensity.

 

thire can’t really help the low stream of curses he lets out through his teeth. maybe it’s for the best that everything is cold, here, because his skin _burns,_ now, blood rising to the surface and heat pooling in his stomach, legs trembling with the effort of keeping him held up. one drops from vader’s side, and it’s simply shoved back into position, invisible hand pressing it against vader’s hip hard enough to leave imprints on the skin of thire’s leg.

 

he can usually never tell when vader is . . . finished, not until he just moves away and leaves thire to pull his greys back on. whatever he uses seemingly doesn’t have a function for ejaculation. but he thinks, by the increased speed at which vader fucks him, he might be coming closer to it. he shivers, hips bucking up once involuntarily.

 

suddenly, there’s a feeling almost of warmth flooding him, settling under his ribs, and almost twanging at his nerves, in a way that he doesn’t quite hate, stopping his breaths short and sending another shiver down his back. his arms jerk involuntarily once, and then it settles, somewhere further downwards, and thire tries, almost, the next time vader presses their hips together, to grind against him, to no avail.

 

but he keeps his eyes shut, even though he’s cursing vader to each one of the nine hells under his breath as he presses right into him again, hand tightening ever so slightly on his throat. thire is close, and he knows it, but this - he’s not really sure these meetings have ever really been about him.

 

almost as if he’s reading thire’s thoughts ( and, to be fair, thire has no guarantee that he _isn’t_ ), the hand on thire’s leg shifts, thumb first pressing, bruising, into the tendon that connected hip to leg, and then shifting again, wrapping around thire once, not yet moving, simply holding, the movement of his hips shifting thire into his hand slightly. the feeling of the leather against his cock is almost too much, almost too rough, but just _almost._

 

vader’s other thumb digs under his chin again, forcing his head back, and for a few moments he just . . . stills, leaving thire to wonder if he’s finished. ‘ please, ‘ he hisses once, quietly, because maybe that’s what he wants, some reaction that he’s looking for.

 

he can swear he feels that spark of _amusement_ there again, but vader’s hand moves over him, twisting slightly, at the same time as he presses to that spot inside thire again, and thire thinks if it were any less sturdy, his nails might’ve torn through the leather of vader’s glove where he holds onto it, eyes squeezing shut and gasping out as he finishes, feeling his release over his own abdomen, and distantly wondering if it had stained vader’s glove, as well.

 

but it seems vader isn’t done, keeping thire pinned against the wall even as he breathes, ragged and trembling, through his aftershocks, gritting his teeth uncomfortably - it’s overstimulating, now, as vader continues to roll his hips into him hard.

 

he only knows he’s finished because the hand lifts from his throat, the other one pushing his leg down so his feet are on the ground again, thire still keeping his back to the wall, though now it’s more to keep himself standing upright than anything else. still, he stands there, eyes closed and naked and shivering, feeling his own release drying over his stomach and some of the lubricant trickling down the back of his leg, until vader speaks again.

 

‘ you are free to go, commander. ‘

 

sighing, thire opens his eyes at last, rubbing them clear, and just tugs his greys and blacks up over the mess for now, clipping on his armor as quickly as he can - he can get a new set of blacks after he takes a long shower, and wonders about how things got to this point.

**Author's Note:**

> @ me for this and i kill you in real life


End file.
